


Our State of Undress

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [185]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Drunk Sex, First Time, M/M, Morning After, Second Time, Watson Worries About Consent, he doesn't need to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-17 02:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16507625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: “Holmes?”“Hmm?”“Have we...have we engaged in carnal relations?”





	Our State of Undress

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Saw the Downey Holmes last night for the first time in ages and oh lord, [these two](https://thumbs.gfycat.com/SnoopyHarmoniousFlycatcher-small.gif).

“Holmes?”

“Hmm?”

“Have we...have we engaged in carnal relations?”

The lump of bedclothes beside me moved a bit, shook like an uneasy blancmanche. “What on earth makes you say that, old boy?”

I sat up a bit straighter and carefully considered the situation. “Well,” I said, “we’ve awakened in the same bed.”

“Not the first time,” the bedclothes said with a grunt.

“True,” I conceded. “But there is also the small matter of our state of undress.”

“How so?”

“We’re both quite naked, Holmes.”

A shock of dark hair popped up by the pillows. A squint. “Ah,” he said. “So we are. That’s novel.”

I spread my hands. “Precisely my point.”

He turned towards me, my friend and colleague, his face squared by the mid-morning light. “But surely nudity alone does not equate sex. You army lads see each other in your skivvies all the time, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said patiently. “But this is hardly equivalent. Never once did I wake up in India even in the most trying of times with my lieutenant stretched out starkers beside me.”

“Hmm,” Holmes said again, “that is vexing.”

“There is also the state of my general person.”

He shifted closer and peered up at me, our bare arms coming to brush. “How so?”

“The, ah”--I chased away a blush with a cough--“the skin in my abdominal region is quite tacky. Dare I say it’s sticking to the sheets.”

“I see.” Holmes frowned, his teeth catching the edge of his lip. “Now that you mention it, Doctor, I find myself in a similar state.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” His hips lifted, the sheets shaking in kind. “Accompanied by a rather pronounced soreness in my thighs.”

“Huh.”

“And in my anus.”

“Oh.” Now the blush won, raced like whipped ponies up and over my chest. “Ah. Well then.”

Holmes nodded concisely. “It seems your diagnosis was sound, then. We have in fact known each other in the biblical sense."

"Indeed," I said. "So it seems."

“I wonder why.”

“Why what, Holmes?”

“Why we tumbled down this particular road.” He slithered up, his shoulders rising from the bedclothes like breakers, and pitched his against mine. “We’ve known each other a long time, after all, and you’ve never seen occasion before to throw yourself upon me.”

“Throw myself?” I said. “Good god, man. Don’t be absurd. I would never take you by force. Nor anyone else, for that matter.”

“Tsk, tsk. You misunderstand me. I meant merely that it was clearly you who, for whatever reason, pursued me.”

“You are out of your mind.”

“Am I?” He wove a hand up and tapped two fingers at the side of his neck. “Why then is my throat mottled with suck marks, then? Hmm? Why did you brand me so with your mouth?”

I blanched. “Come now, I wouldn't--"

“And these!” Here he thrust his wrists into my face, the skin there violet, too. “You seem to have held me with some force.”

My confusion washed away beneath a tremor of horror. “Oh, god," I whispered. "Holmes, did I really do that?”

Holmes tossed his head and rolled his eyes. “Do you see anyone else about?”

I stared at the bruises, gobsmacked, took in the splashes of purple and red, and for a moment, I was sick at it, the thought that I could have been so rough, could have damaged that which I had loved--truth be told, for what reason was there left to lie, even to myself--for so very long…

...and then, something sloshed in me stirred, staggered towards the sunlight, and all at once my mouth burned and I remembered the taste of his skin, the scratch of his stubble as he bucked beneath me, arching into my hold, his cries warm and dry in my ear.

“Ah ha!” he said, triumphant. “You recall it now, don’t you? Holding me down and ravaging me thus.”

I blinked. “Kissing, yes. You howling like a fevered whore as I did so, yes. But ravaging? Absolutely not! No.”

He gave a dismissive wave. “Pffft,” he said, “if you thought I sounded a whore, Watson, then I pity any and all women you’ve ever taken before. Don’t you know what pleasure sounds like?”

It was different then, sitting there beside him, feeling a stranger in my own bed. Different because I was so keenly aware of him, every inch: from his hair teasing my chin to the line of his arm to the bump of his great bony bare knee against my shin.

“So you liked it,” I said, careful, as if each word was an eggshell. “Whatever brought us to our current state of play.”

Holmes chuckled, his breath quick on my chest. “I doubt I'd be quite so sticky if I hadn’t.”

“Ah.” A thought occurred. “I could have used you for a time, though, and then emptied myself on you where you lay.”

He made a strange, strangled sound--strange because it did not seem to be one of pain. “I suppose that is possible,” he said. “But I think it unlikely.”

“And why is that?”

“Because, old boy, you left some of yourself, shall we say, behind. I can feel it quite clearly.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Indeed,” Sherlock Holmes said, breathless. “Oh.”

I lifted my arm and drew him beneath it. He sighed, candy floss soft, and I pressed my mouth to his hair. He smelled of sweat and spend and something sweeter, familiar: what was it, now? I took another breath, deeper this time, and the realization struck me full force. 

He smelled of the cognac we’d had with dinner. Ah.

And well after, it seemed.

“Holmes," I said, "were we drunk?”

His palm skittered over my ribs and curled shyly around my back. “I believe we both imbibed a great deal, yes.”

“Did I truly take advantage of you?”

He made that strangled sound again, buried it this time in my chest. “Only in the most delightful of ways.”

I cupped my hand beneath his jaw and drew his face up, bent my own down to meet it. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I wished I could recall it all. Every moment.”

Holmes’s eyes were alight, blazing with more than the invisive sun. “It is a shame, really. I could tell you about it. None of it will I ever forget.” And here he smiled, slow and sneaky. “But to show you, I’m sure, would be much more entertaining.”

I kissed him then, the great consulting detective, and his mouth opened up, eager, the stale state of his breath quickly fading from the tumult of our tongues, and yet I tasted--

“Holmes!”

“What?” he grumbled, his fingers rough and ready in my hair.

“Did I spill in your mouth?”

I felt his lips turn. “Yes, you did,” he said. “Shall I show you how?”

What else could I say then but: “Oh god, _yes_.”

And here Sherlock Holmes tugged himself from my arms and with a flourish threw back the sheets, bared my body to his eyes, to the warm, crowning light.

“Yes, my dear Watson," he hummed as his hands skated over my stomach and found my eager, stiffening flesh, smirking when I gave up a groan. “That’s the first step, indeed.”


End file.
